


unless it is drawn by repetition

by agent_orange



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Character(s) of Color, Children, Courtship, Cunnilingus, Domestic, Drabble Collection, Drinking, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Origin Story, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Prisoner of War, Religion, Religious Guilt, Restraints, Revolutionary War, Sisters, Sleep Deprivation, Suicidal Thoughts, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 20:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5347916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one has ever looked at Eliza this way before, like they could see the entirety of her soul and spirit, disassemble her one part at a time. Alexander <i>sees</i> her and he touches her like she’s porcelain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unless it is drawn by repetition

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [saw you in the wild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105771) by [agent_orange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange). 



> Mixes historical timeline and musical canon. See end for more notes, slightly spoilerish.

**i.** Hamilton’s letters to his father, to supporters of their cause, are abridged: this revolution of theirs moves far slower than he would like, and the details he leaves out do not lack cause: the difficulty of coordinating with the French, the time spent waiting for information, how they starve some days and shiver most nights.

They spend days traveling, or doing nothing, though they are not always confined to camp. So there is plenty of time spent in taverns, raucous evenings of debate and too many tense disagreements; beer and bread; and sharing a tent with Laurens nearly every night.

 **ii.** When Lafayette tells Hamilton the news, hours after the dust has settled on the ground again and the adrenaline no longer buzzes in his blood, all the breath in his lungs exits at once. He rushes to the medical tent and does his best to ignore the ghastliness there as he searches the beds for John. Laurens’ mop of curls give away his whereabouts; he sits down on the cot, and Laurens stirs.

He grabs Hamilton’s hand, mutters, “’s only a graze.” Hamilton assumes John’s smile is due to the laudanum, and tugs the covers down to check the wound. It does not seem to be infected, though John’s sides are mottled with deep purple bruises. It stings his heart to see Laurens in this state, and he finds a doctor to administer more medication.

“Sleep now,” Hamilton says, even as John says something about his translations. “Shhh, rest. You’ll be alright.” He masks his worry and squeezes John’s hand tightly before forcing himself to slip away. They cannot be found out.

But Lafayette knows, and he allows Hamilton to drink himself into a stupor before dragging him back to their quarters. “Our _friend_ will live another day,” he promises.

 **iii.** The Schuyler home has not been quiet in months, perhaps longer. Eliza longs for some tranquility in which she can draw, or perhaps read, uninterrupted, but her wish goes unfulfilled. Even in the dark of winter, men come to their parlor to discuss Europe, the war, strategy. There is so much beer that eventually the sight of it makes Eliza queasy, and their supply of molasses disappears as she makes cakes for her father’s friends. And at the end of the night, when his guard is down, he complains that all the suitable young men are fighting in the revolution.

“Pray this war does not take a whole decade,” he says. “I should like to keep time on our side.” Angelica scoffs at that later, once she and Eliza are alone in the rooms they share.

Angelica says, “Father only frets about me,” and ties Eliza’s plait with a bow. “Peggy is fine-looking, delicate enough to attract someone suitable. And you—you, my dear, could dazzle a company with your smile, and have so much love in your heart. But I will not hold my tongue to please a man.”

“Perhaps the revolution will turn the tides?” Eliza offers. “And the Washington’s ball is next week. I’ll find you a husband myself if that’s what it will take to please Daddy.”

Angelica says, “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the city for new gowns. We can stay at least overnight if we convince Mother to accompany us. Perhaps I’ll even find a husband there.” The sharp twist of her mouth shows just how little faith she has in that idea.

And Eliza _aches_ for her sister. “It’s a shame you cannot be elected as a delegate to the Continental Congress,” she says. “You know far more than Daddy’s friends could ever imagine.”

 **iv.** Urgency thrums under Hamilton’s skin, his impatience mounting each day. He is certain he has never desired anything so much as the command General Washington does not deign to entrust to him. Hamilton’s clerkships in Saint Croix included weeks of reading to pass the time followed by harried days logging imports for hasty sale. Now, at least, he does not want for tasks. While he is accustomed to the sharp clench of hunger in his stomach, his stamina falters at times. Regularly, he writes late into the night, sometimes even through ‘til morning, to their collaborators and Congress. The General issues order upon order, endless requests for supplies and support; Hamilton is one of a few men sent out on military missions. He works aside Baron von Steuben, whose training surely saves their lives, and racks his brain to correctly conjugate verbs in French.

Weekly, he implores Washington for a command.

“Sir, if you’d allow me the honor—I know our tactics, I’ve practiced them. Humbly, sir, I have long anticipated this; you cannot deny my preparedness, and the Sound is an opportune spot from which to force the British back. Let me show you what I can do to them. You’d find my skills match those of your generals, Your Excellency—I will exceed your expectations. I want to fight. Just _let_ me,” Hamilton says, ducking his head in deference for his monologue.

Washington denies him with the firm press of his hand on Hamilton’s shoulder. “It is not yet time.”

As before, Hamilton is enveloped in the chaos of battle as he conducts field reconnaissance, ferries orders from Washington, shouts commands in French. He is lucky, this time, to come away mostly unscathed even as his ears ring from cannons and muskets firing all around him. Following the day’s debriefing, Alexander stays to privately offer a thought.

“Lee issued his own orders today, sir; he is insubordinate to you and he—“

Washington interrupts him. “That’s enough, Hamilton.” The candles cast shadows across his face and Hamilton sees, now, the hollows under his eyes, the lines set in his face. He is tired. And Alexander feels his own weariness set in. Still, he could speak for hours more if it would make a whit of difference, though he knows he has lost this particular fight.

“Sleep, Alexander. Come see me in the morning,” Washington says. “No more work tonight.”

 **v.** The rarity of privacy is grueling for a host of reasons. Only the truly naïve think nothing surreptitious occurs under the cover of nightfall, though no one speaks of what does. John has read the classics, feigns no ignorance about what happens in men’s quarters at war.

John had felt an attraction to Hamilton when they first met: the cadence of his speech, how he could not stop his enthusiasm from spilling out, eyes glinting in the sunlight. So many years of his adolescence were spent terrified and guilty over his lack of attraction to women, and this is the explanation. It took three months of—his thoughts ricocheting in the echo chamber of his mind as he has no one to consult—working alongside Hamilton on Washington’s correspondence before John gathered up enough nerve to make a careful overture: a gaze held too long, one hand lingering on Alexander’s as John passed him a quill. And Hamilton had bolted, sleeping God knows where that night.

When John found him the next afternoon, he had to ply Hamilton with salted pork and beans to offer an explanation. Alexander’s boasts of experience are well-known, but his speech now belies any skill or cleverness. He cannot even interrupt to soothe Alexander, because the man is talking too quickly about his understanding of wartime arrangements but that his feelings are more intense. _Oh_ , Hamilton had assumed John would never notice him—

Underfed, raggedy, and eager, and Hamilton still hesitates before asking if he’s _enough_. His fingers busily pick at the threads of his shirt as he says, “I will not be some convenience for a man who merely misses his wife. And I will not have it said that I gained anything by—”

“Beautiful fool,” John had said before kissing him. He sometimes repeats that phrase, though when Alexander wakes him by squirming out from John’s arms, his immediate reaction is to curse.

“—Because it’s freezing, Alex, and early still. Christ. You needn’t write now,” John insists. Camp is near silent with only a poor few awake, giving them a few moments to spare.

Alexander relents, he claims, entirely because of the cold, though he hardly complains when John kisses him _hard_ , snatching Alexander’s wrists between his hands. That spurs Alexander on, pulling John’s hips closer once he gets his hands free.

It’s too cold to remove clothing so their breeches are shoved down just enough, and he touches any bit of Alexander’s skin he can reach, kissing him as they move against each other. They have learned to be quiet with practice, and the war feels distant with Alexander’s fingers in John’s curls, mouth hot on John’s neck.

Once they’ve managed to separate, some young soldier comes to fetch them for Washington. Hamilton steals one more kiss as they hurriedly finish; John is grateful that they were not interrupted this time. Mulligan catching them _once_ was shameful enough, to say the least, as he still insists he knew about them all along.

 **vi.** And just as quickly as they seemed to gain the upper hand, the balance shifts, and the Continental Army encounters one disaster or defeat after another. John’s father writes, reminds him of his duty to return home and help battle Britain’s increasing control of the South. (The plantation comes first.) He cannot say no—General Washington grants him permission, and John spends days with a sick churning feeling in his stomach, unease seeping into his bones—though he should like to stay up north, where his ideas of abolition are not always immediately dismissed.

Lobbying South Carolina’s representatives to authorize a slave regiment leaves him no time to court by proxy the state’s finest ladies so that Hamilton [may take the _trouble_ of a wife upon himself](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-02-02-0100). He commands a regiment in Georgia and takes a bullet to the shoulder before being taken captive. Trapped in Pennsylvania, he is unable to contribute to their cause. Guilt is too familiar a feeling under his skin now, and impotence, that he is [forced to idle at such an important juncture](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Washington/99-01-02-01866).

Alexander’s letters came no matter where John was; now, they pile up on the battered table in John’s quarters in Pennsylvania. He wonders if Alexander sleeps at all, given the frequency of his correspondence. Still, letters constitute a poor substitute for physical proximity; John might as well be thousands of miles away for how alone he is. His father’s visit only exacerbates John’s anguish, as he’s blamed for his own capture. By now, he is wise enough from experience to say nothing, to bow his head as the shame rolls over him in waves.

Perhaps worse than John’s inability to act is his looming worry that he is, in fact, no longer of use to Washington from a distance. To the revolution. Hamilton has become quite taken with Elizabeth Schuyler, whose family will provide Alexander with the funds necessary for his happiness. At least John can feign happiness in his letters as he attempts to make himself believe it, tamping down his jealousy and regret best he can.

Praying away the feelings has always failed, as it does now; John has been a terrible Christian in recent years—an adulterer, and worse. The Bible is one of a few books he has in his current possession, and so he rereads it. He does not agree with its skewed view of morality, but his religious upbringing is embedded in him, the Bible’s authority still hovering in the air. In all likelihood, there will be no redemption for him.

Dark envelopes the town before early evening arrives, bringing a chill that steals into John’s chamber. It is easy to contemplate death by his own hand—to wish for it, even—to meet his end with a knife or a noose. His suffering would be no more. To his disgust (though a bit of relief also) he can never bring himself to press the blade of his knife deeply enough across his wrist. So he writes as many letters as he’s given the parchment for, never mentioning it to Alexander again

And small luxuries do alleviate, at least temporarily, his grim thoughts: the eerie orange mess of sunrise smearing across the sky; a spoon of preserves on his dry bread; most of all, letters from Alexander, Washington, Franklin. The army wins one battle only to suffer three setbacks. France may send more aid, if Lafayette gains enough favor. His brothers risk their lives, so John can gather the will to live another day. He can maintain hope for himself, and that their revolution will succeed.

 **vii.** Best of sisters, Angelica—so clever and protective—has provided Eliza with wisdom and guidance on how best to receive potential suitors since they began calling, and her counsel increases once she reconnects with Hamilton. Of course Eliza is grateful Aunt Gertrude invited her to spend the winter in Morristown, but she misses her sisters so dearly sometimes she worries her heart might split. They write often; it’s not the same, but there is not room for them to stay here as well.

Now, Eliza is left to her own devices in preparing for tonight. She wishes they were here to soothe her nerves. She imagines Peggy making snarky, off-color jokes, Angelica carefully brushing rouge onto her cheeks. Eliza examines the dresses she’s laid out, fingering the ruffles and patterns. In the end, she settles on one Peggy had loaned her. The dress is the color of a thistle but more inviting; though Eliza would not have purchased it herself, she’s pleased when it does flatter her.

“Be cautious, Eliza,” Angelica had written her. “Hamilton’s reputation will only benefit if details of your courtship come to light. Make sure your intended stays silent about just this one thing—that goes for writing, too.”

Eliza has made him promise this before—she knows Alexander to be impulsive, obsessive. Some people say _genius_ , some say _irresponsible_ and far worse in private, and she knows of the rumors surrounding him. Their marriage will give him wealth, standing; she knows her family could benefit eventually, too. Whether she loves him or not is still unclear ( _how is she meant to_ know _?_ ) but Hamilton’s letters to her are too expressive to be false affection. Eliza knows she’s fortunate enough—she’s not merely a pawn in some larger game.

The letters are Eliza’s internal justification for meeting Alexander in a shady, private patch of woods, closer to Uncle John’s house than Washington’s camp since he has the use of a horse.

“Truly, Eliza, little has happened that would interest you. Lee is intent on sabotaging everything, or else too dense to realize his mistakes. And General Washington says nothing—he must know the British win if we are divided,” he’d said last week, though his explanation stretched for long minutes as he wove through loosely-related points and eventually tired himself out. This, too, endears him to Eliza; he seems...fallible, somehow, more real.

When they meet outside, it’s not yet fully dark, though Eliza feels the cold through her coat. They share wine he claims to have pilfered from an army medic; it’s spicy-bitter in her mouth at first, becoming palatable over time. Alexander’s swigs from the bottle color his lips a deep red, and Eliza cannot help nipping at them.

“More news today: we still wait,” Alexander says when he finally pulls away. “The French fleet is delayed _again_ , and Congress is making a fuss about some financials.” The trials of war weigh heavy on him, she knows. And so does John Laurens’ confinement in Pennsylvania. He sighs. “No matter. Is there any news from your father’s latest gathering?”

She’s confident the wistful shake of her head tells him all he needs to know, and she watches how the smile slides right off his face. Eliza adds, “Angelica has never been permitted to attend, nor I, naturally, so I wouldn’t—”

“Oh, Eliza,” he says, eyes so bright and soft she cannot tear her own gaze away from his. No one has ever looked at Eliza this way before, like they could see the entirety of her soul and spirit, disassemble her one part at a time. Alexander _sees_ her and he touches her like she’s porcelain. Once he lays his coat on the ground and motions for her to sit, he’s full of questions: what are her ideals for their new nation? Would she deign to place the capital in New York or elsewhere? What of the Indians out West?

In between pressing kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, Alexander says, “You’re trained in etiquette. You’ll have to help me charm the British after we defeat them. Reestablishing trade between us will be an unpleasant but necessary task.”

Lofty hopes, her Alexander. “Anything,” she agrees.

viii. After the fourth time Peggy glances at him from across the hall, Hamilton grows nervous. He checks his coat for stains, runs his fingers through his hair—nothing is amiss. Has he done something wrong? She’s smiling as she approaches him, a flute of champagne in each hand.

Passing him one, she says, “You’re ill at ease,” tone understanding rather than unkind.

She is right. He indelicately downs half at once, as he would rather be elsewhere, ideally home. Tonight’s ball is an early, overconfident show at celebrating their likely victory. Eliza is by her father’s side as he mingles and beams with pride. John is at tonight’s ball too, staying with them until the Army’s work is done, then he’ll return home. His family connections mean he is welcome in most any circle, and Alexander cannot stick too close to him for fear of inciting rumors. There’s an unpleasant dichotomy: he has won respect for his service and talents, but is still treated as an immigrant outsider, not to be trusted. He was not raised for this life and it shows. Bless her—Peggy does not insist he make the acquaintance of her friends, nor insist he stay.

“The Warner’s parties are always this dull, I’m afraid,” she offers. “Go. Introduce yourself to the Calverts. Be charming. Say you cannot spend another minute away from my sister and take your leave. I’ll steal Mr. Laurens away for a dance and escort him out—you shan’t leave your guest behind, after all.”

 _I am so fortunate_ , he thinks, leaving to follow Peggy’s instructions.

Eliza is giddy on the carriage ride home. She’d been fawned over all night as her father walked her around the room, recounting her marriage to all those unaware of it. There were so many toasts; still, Alexander sees no reason not to have a more improved private party. Moving quickly, he lights a few candles; pours whisky for himself and John, a splash of port for Eliza; fetches some bread and cheese from the larder.

Eliza is half in John’s lap when he returns. Hamilton supposes he should have anticipated this; it has been so long.

“I see I’m hardly needed,” he huffs in mock affront, and then they separate.

“My feet,” Eliza says, “are _aflame_ from these wretched shoes. Alexander, is there any liniment?”

“Upstairs,” he responds, which is as good an excuse as any to add, “Come, I’ll carry you.”

Traitors, both of them scoff at that, but she hitches her legs around his waist just the same. John redeems himself by bringing the tray.

The bed (roomy enough for three, worth every dollar Hamilton spent) becomes a nest of pillows and blankets. John eats a hunk of bread and cheese, and Eliza sits between his legs as Hamilton massages the liniment into her soles. Sipping her wine, the lines of her shape long and elegant between them, she looks the very definition of regal. From there, he slides his hands up the smooth expanse of her legs, John working in sync as he sets her glass aside and they help Eliza out of her dress.

Hamilton urgently needs to be naked, needs John to be too. He needs it like oxygen suddenly, to kiss each of them, touch them with every bit of adoration in his body. The rosy notes of Eliza’s perfume and John’s familiar hands on his thigh, his back, flood his senses, completely enveloping him. Hamilton’s world narrows enough so he can focus on just this until alcohol and exhaustion overtake them all.

The shifting of their bodies rouses Hamilton from sleep every few hours, and he drops lazy kisses on whichever patch of skin is nearest. Eliza nestles in closer for warmth, and even in the pitch dark, it’s clear from how John holds her that his affection for her has grown into love. This will go unsaid, Alexander knows; John is wracked with guilt that his affections lie with them instead of with his own wife.

When the sun rises he kisses John as tenderly as he knows how, half-whispering praise and compliments as John fucks Eliza with slow, even thrusts. Sentences are harder to string together when they turn their attention toward him. “ _Oh_ , just there,” he chokes, hardly a match for two tongues and sets of hands. “You’re so good, John, missed you—”

Eliza fists a section of Hamilton’s hair, pulling his head backward so his neck is exposed and she can bite at it. “Show him how much,” she urges. Someone’s fingers tighten around his cock (he cannot even tell whose—it doesn’t matter) and Alexander’s whole face flushes with heat as he comes. He thinks he might cry from overstimulation, and Eliza and John look so pleased with themselves that he cannot begrudge them.

 **ix.** “Taste this,” Eliza says, drawing a spoon from a pot of what will soon be wildberry jam. She says, “ _Alexander_ ,” and touches his shoulder before he looks up. There’s a stack of books by his side and a mess of papers on the desk in his lap; he has been studying economics and banking for weeks and shows no signs of slowing down even as her pregnancy advances.

“Mmm,” he hums absent-mindedly as he scratches out a sentence. His tongue is a flash of pink as it darts out to lick the spoon, and warmth spreads through Eliza’s stomach—a frequent occurrence as of late. “Is it meant not to be sweet?”

Eliza frowns when she tastes it herself. She adds a few spoons more of sugar and some lemon juice for balance until she’s satisfied. Alexander steals another sample, nods his approval before Eliza cans the jam. There’s an uncomfortable tickling in her belly, and she sighs. This baby, both blessing and curse, is certainly Alexander’s child—already making life difficult for Eliza. One day she’ll be bursting with energy, knitting hats and blankets at a rapid pace, and the next, her limbs are so leaden she cannot manage to leave their bed.

Even when queasiness overtakes her faculties, Alexander brings her apples and oatmeal, insisting that she finish the bowl. “You need your strength,” he says, and, “Our son needs you.” Curled in on herself and feeling miserable, she watches him work. He perches on the ottoman and armchair he’d purchased so he could write in their chambers, and he peers down through his glasses to find he’s running out of ink, or just as likely, paper.

Nearly as often, Eliza is overcome with love, or desire sparking beneath her skin. This is partly Alexander’s doing—her gowns display how her bosom has grown, and he looks at her anew. She doesn’t even feel cumbersome when he eases her into his lap, rocks into her so slowly she thinks she might scream. And as he teases her by skimming his fingers across her clitoris, he catches her chin in his other hand and holds her gaze, unwavering. _Mine,_ he breathes when he finally grants her release, _Eliza, love—_

The pregnancy has made her so much more sensitive, each sensation amplified. An unexpected benefit, certainly.

“Fuck,” Eliza says, unable to help herself. Alexander’s laugh at that breaks into a moan when her muscles clench around him. “ _Alex._ ” Eliza can’t recall if, over all this time, she’s called him that. Still, she likes the way the nickname feels in her mouth, how it slips effortlessly from between her teeth. “Don’t move?”

The nod she gets is obedient (finally), and his only movement is to steady Eliza as she keeps him inside her, shifting gently. When Alexander comes, he’s silent, though it’s obvious when he kisses her, squeezing her hips just this side of too hard. Eliza attempts to redistribute her weight but Alexander arranges her on the bed and scoots down it. Again, there’s a flash of pink tongue—Alexander licks his lips, kisses below her navel, the mark on her thigh.

Inexplicably nervous, Eliza says, “You needn’t… I’m not sure if I can—”

“No matter,” he responds. His tongue is soft, careful, sending little jolts and waves of pleasure through her even though she cannot climax again. Alexander looks far too smug about rendering her limbs useless. He is relentless.

On far too many mornings, she has woken alone in their bed only to find Alexander in his study, surrounded by mess and rumpled himself, looking thoroughly exhausted. He may not remember when he last ate or rested, and she’s unsure which is worse: Alexander willfully ignoring his own basic needs or forgetting them altogether. He’s cavalierly reckless with his own life, needs someone to care for him. So Eliza does, hoping her efforts make a bit of difference in this American experiment.

By the middle of the month, he has twice stayed awake for three straight days, which is when Eliza decides she knows what her husband needs more than he does. Alexander is too weak to physically resist when she leads him to their chambers. Even in bed, he’ll refuse sleep, so she wraps a scarf around his eyes, or uses old cloths to bind his wrists to the bedpost. She deprives one of his senses and he fights it but the external control subdues him. Most often, Alexander pulls at the knots like this time he’ll succeed in breaking them.

His words don’t match his conciliatory tone: “Betsey, I wasn’t finished! I need to send a letter in tomorrow’s post—I’m quite alright.”

But Eliza holds firm. “We have many sleepless nights ahead. No need to tire yourself out now,” she says.

He tries to finish composing his essays aloud, making revisions along the way while Eliza uses her hands to ground him. When his voice finally goes hoarse, she tells him stories; his body shakes from struggling and she drapes blankets over him, cuddles in close. Now she unties him, rubbing at the harsh red depressions in his wrists, and he waves her hands away, spreading his own fingers across the swell of her belly like a shield.

Mostly, he lets himself be soothed by her fingers scratching across his scalp, or rubbing circles over his back. For now, he is blessedly still and peaceful.

 **x.** He leaves her, again and again, ever-conscious of the promise in the back of his mind that he’d never do such a thing. Nature may be at fault, or nurture—Hamilton has left every place he’s ever lived, so he’s hesitant to tie his affections to any particular home or city. No longer can he spread his concern so thinly and still expect to have excess.

The revolution may be over, but its chaos remains and colors their efforts to build a new nation from the ground up. Congress (and therefore the capital) is a moving target, and to Hamilton’s surprise, it hardly takes much effort to avoid attachment. He is often gone to Philadelphia, or upstate when Eliza and the children are in the city. There is no manner of logic, which agitates them both.

The truce he and Eliza reached is an imperfect compromise, leaving neither of them gratified. Eliza, ever caring and thoughtful, rarely voices a complaint or nag, only her desire to be with him. Guilt about this, too, sometimes creeps into the pit of his stomach. Even as her sisters’ lives are more comfortable than her own, Eliza claims not to care about Hamilton’s lack of wealth. He knows there is already ample cause for her disappointment in him—his temper, inadvertent carelessness, his _birth_. For all this and more he has apologized.

He does not change his ways. He spends many nights alone in both houses, and there are more than a few where darkness seems to swallow the house whole and he longs for Eliza something fierce. So he strives harder for his ideas, and each plan he proposes, every essay he writes, only widens the chasm between himself and his political opponents who are relentless in their quest to strip him of power. His devotion to ideals is unmatched. _We must strive to secure justice and liberty for all in this young country_ , he writes, _and our best citizens will build it in a better image of themselves_. He is not daft; he knows his policies of increased taxes and centralized government power are met with skepticism at best.

But some of the opposition he faces is purely personal, not that he can speak of it without further harming his own reputation. Calm and even-tempered under stress, Eliza bristles when he raises it with her. Perhaps something is wrong, or perhaps she is finally going to speak some ultimatum.

“They’re not the only ones at fault, Alexander,” she says as she pours herself tea. “You’re younger, and you’re…” _a bastard immigrant_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies. “You’re not in the habit of observing the rules, and you could stand to listen more. Compromise, too.” She gives a half-shrug of her shoulders, mouth slightly downturned as she stirs milk and sugar into her teacup. “People talk about you. They discuss your ideas. Hadn’t you wanted that?” The tone of her voice could send a chill through the room.

Rising to meet his eyes, she says, “I promised Angelica a story.” In the doorway, she pauses, turns to look at him, and the expression on her face is one Hamilton cannot recall ever having seen. It’s inscrutable. Puzzling.

“All this—” punctuating her words with a wave of her hand, Eliza looks younger, more like she did during their courtship, it strikes him, “—politics, statecraft… Are you fulfilled by this? Is it worth it for all we give? For all you do, how you wear yourself out writing? Alexander, you build a nation for those who cannot see its merits and for our children, who you—”

The room feels impossibly small suddenly, or maybe it’s the feeling of his skin tightening uncomfortably. “Eliza, please.” Maybe it’s because his voice breaks, but Eliza looks at him, face softening a bit. “I _know_ I’m too absent. You know how much I love them.” He hesitates. “ _Do_ you know? I want to give them everything, a whole world’s worth of opportunity. If I fail in my work, Jefferson will succeed and we’ll be stuck in some stunted, useless agrarian economy. I want something better.” He restrains himself from lashing out further by thinking instead of saying: _I didn’t come to this country to be fought at every turn by a prominent planter who’s got the populace convinced he’s some democratic saint!_

Or perhaps he did. He grits his teeth at the thought. She says nothing else besides, “Good night, Alexander,” but now, at least, he can parse her demeanor more. Eliza is sullenly resigned, maybe, or pensive, but not enraged. Hamilton could say he’s content and she would nod understandingly, never speak of this again and accept it unquestioningly. She is nothing if not devoted; it twists his stomach into knots.

The way she turns and goes, back ramrod-straight and footsteps soft on the floor, make it abundantly clear that any further response of his is not needed, and that under no circumstances is he to follow her. She’ll tend to their daughter, and then roam the gardens, maybe, or curl up in her rocking chair, and his instincts don’t agree with him staying put. He would go after her, explain himself better and ask again for forgiveness he does not deserve, but he does not wish to further anger her.

Somehow, the silence is so deafening he’s too overwhelmed to keep working, so he writes her a letter for later, and writes one to Angelica, too. Little Alexander and James are both still asleep, he finds when he visits their room, brushes a gentle kiss across each of their foreheads. Still unable to think, he paces the house as quietly as possible, fixes himself something to eat. Once the clock strikes two, he knows Eliza will be asleep, and he slips into their bed and gingerly places his arm over her waist. He will be there in the morning when she wakes up—proof he loves her, that he’s still trying for her. She makes his life worthwhile.

**Author's Note:**

> Eliza really was in Morristown the winter Hamilton was (staying with her aunt and uncle, see http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/13/nyregion/actresses-in-hamilton-take-a-trip-to-a-family-home-for-a-history-lesson.html?_r=0).
> 
> In the final section, Eliza reads a letter to her daughter Angelica, and Alexander writes a letter to Angelica Church.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr to talk about fic/yell about the musical @laissezunfair.
> 
> Finally, it's holiday season and I'm a struggling new college grad who'll write on commission.


End file.
